thy days, inglorious, hide? 
    Ah! dost thou murmur, that my span of time
    Has join’d eternity’s unchanging tide? 
    Yes, though I seem’d to shut mine eyes in night,
    They only closed to wake in everlasting light!”

    ANNE BANNERMAN.

SONNET XII.

Mai non fu’ in parte ove si chiar’ vedessi.

VAUCLUSE.

      Nowhere before could I so well have seen
    Her whom my soul most craves since lost to view;
    Nowhere in so great freedom could have been
    Breathing my amorous lays ’neath skies so blue;
    Never with depths of shade so calm and green
    A valley found for lover’s sigh more true;
    Methinks a spot so lovely and serene
    Love not in Cyprus nor in Gnidos knew. 
    All breathes one spell, all prompts and prays that I
    Like them should love—­the clear sky, the calm hour,
    Winds, waters, birds, the green bough, the gay flower—­
    But thou, beloved, who call’st me from on high,
    By the sad memory of thine early fate,
    Pray that I hold the world and these sweet snares in hate.

    MACGREGOR.

      Never till now so clearly have I seen
    Her whom my eyes desire, my soul still views;
    Never enjoy’d a freedom thus serene;
    Ne’er thus to heaven breathed my enamour’d muse,
    As in this vale sequester’d, darkly green;
    Where my soothed heart its pensive thought pursues,
    And nought intrusively may intervene,
    And all my sweetly-tender sighs renews. 
    To Love and meditation, faithful shade,
    Receive the breathings of my grateful breast! 
    Love not in Cyprus found so sweet a nest
    As this, by pine and arching laurel made! 
    The birds, breeze, water, branches, whisper love;
    Herb, flower, and verdant path the lay symphonious move.

    CAPEL LOFFT.

SONNET XIII.

Quante fiate al mio dolce ricetto.

HER FORM STILL HAUNTS HIM IN SOLITUDE.

      How oft, all lonely, to my sweet retreat
    From man and from myself I strive to fly,
    Bathing with dewy eyes each much-loved seat,
    And swelling every blossom with a sigh! 
    How oft, deep musing on my woes complete,
    Along the dark and silent glens I lie,
    In thought again that dearest form to meet
    By death possess’d, and therefore wish to die! 
    How oft I see her rising from the tide
    Of Sorga, like some goddess of the flood;
    Or pensive wander by the river’s side;
    Or tread the flowery mazes of the wood;
    Bright as in life; while angel pity throws
    O’er her fair face the impress of my woes.

    MERIVALE.

SONNET XIV.

Alma felice, che sovente torni.